Stallions of the west: A battle for dawn
by Lordofslytherin692
Summary: Westeros burns. Two kings lie dead, a prophecy half fulfilled. Far to the north, the lord commander must save an old enemy if humanity is to endure. If he fails, so fails the watch. Yet he has ever been resourceful... The Martells plot and scheme to the south. On the western coast the stormborn prepares to burn her heart and gain a great weapon. Cold winds are rising in the north
1. Chapter 1

1

Tywin

The chambers of the lord commander were far more comfortable then the regular accommodations at Castle Black. He chuckled to himself as he stood by the fire, goblet of water in hand. The race for the command position had been a difficult one. It had come down to a single vote after 4 ties, but he managed to defeat his opponent. Thorne had not been impressed when he lost the ballot. The real trouble would be Maester Aemon, however. No doubt the old man would cause trouble as some means of vengeance for his dead family. Of all the times to become Lord commander, he mused, he had most definitely picked an interesting one. The wildlings were demanding to be allowed south of the wall, the country had been torn apart by war, and his new soldiers had produced proof of the others. He stared at the skull burning in the flames. They had dragged in a _walking corpse_ of all things, bound in chains. The dead had awoken, to take the living.

He would need to decide what to do with Tormund Giantsbane and the other 'free folk'. Apparently the king In the North had gotten himself killed in the Forrest north of the wall. Now with no king Tormund had managed to secure leadership of the surviving wildlings. If they could be trusted to aid in the fight against the dead, then perhaps he would allow them to cross. Alternatively, he could just allow them to die out there in the cold wastes of the north. That way they could takae down some of these dead men with them. Although, he sighed, as he poured his cup onto the fire, that wasn't really an option. Not unless they wanted to give the enemy more meat for their army. He watched in fascination as the water droplets rolled over the skull which by now had begun to crack with the heat.

Life in the North was cold, and things would only get worse. As ever, the starks would eventually be right. Winter was coming. And if the reappearance of the others was anything to go by, it would certainly be a cold one. He was shaken from his private thoughts as his door was thrown open. A brother burst into the room, eyes wide. Tywin raised an eyebrow as he moved to sit at his desk. He glared at the young man whose name he had not yet learnt. "what is it?"

"sorry to disturb you, commander, but there are some refugees fleeing north from the Iron Born. A couple hundred by the looks". Tywin nodded thoughtfully as he stood up to head into the courtyard with the Steward. As he stepped out into the yard, he gazed briefly towards the wall. It stretched hundreds of feet above and away. For the first time in his life, something unexpected occurred to Tywin Lannister; he felt small. Shaking his head to ignore the feeling he made his way down into the yard. Sure enough about three hundred men, women, and children had arrived at the castle. Their leader stepped forward to speak.

He was an old man, easily the size of king Robert. Bald on top, a white beard hid his neck. He wore little more then rags. It was clear the smallfolk had ran with little more then the clothes on their backs. Some had brought bows and there were even a few with hammers. The leader bowed his head before him. "Rorst is me name Ser. These people have no where else to go. The Iron Born destroyed our homes so we came here. We're prepared to work in return for protection". As he gazed out at the sea of faces, Tywin nodded. He offered the man his hand. Rorst happily shook the offered hand, weeping tears of joy.

"Have all your men and boys with 10 name days or more, other then smiths go to the armoury. If you are to stay safe at the wall you will aid in its defence. When the wall is once more made safe, and the North secured, the women shall be sent to settle it". Rorst seemed shocked by the orders. He stared at him as if he had heard wrong. The old farmer cleared his throat nervously. "Milord", he asked, voice quavering, "are you expextin the Iron Born to strike this far north?" Tywin's response was to shake his head.

"No Rorst," he replied as he turned his back on the man, "I expect the dead to attack the wall". With that he left the man standing in the yard. He did not look back as he gave the order for a group of four rangers to be roused. He moved back to the refugees, pushing through the crowds as he went. On his way to the stables, the sun rising on the horizon, he spotted Rorst. He walked over to the older man and waited for him to finish. The farmer was directing his people throughout the castle. He turned, starting upon seeing Tywin.

"Get yourself a horse. Find four men armed and willing to go with you. Have them mounted as well. You are coming with my men and I north of the wall". Tywin did not bother waiting to see if the other man was following him. He stalked into the stables throwing a saddle over one of the horses. Swinging himself onto the beast's back he rode it out into the yard. As he did so he spotted Rorst and nine other men, half of which were rangerS, make their way into the stables after him. Within half an hour they were armed, supplied and north of the wall.

"Where are we going?" Murmured one of the younger rangers.

"to speak with the wildlings. About Survival".

.Jon

The battle was over; they had won as the survivors threw down their weapons in surrender or ran from the field, a great cheer went up amongst the men. Beside him, Edmure patted him on the back, and rose his sword in triumph. The Tully lord let out a great roaring cheer. Several men standing around them laughed at the auburn haired man. Jon sheathed the blade Daeron had given him as he ran a hand through his hair. Suddenly, a hushed silence fell over the men. Next to him he heard Edmure let out a gasp and break into a run. He hastened to follow.

Edmure dropped to his knees and he lost sight of him through the crowd. Pushing his way through he was shocked by the sight. Lying side by side, each caked in blood were Aegon and Daeron. It was immediately obvious they were dead. Edmure was by his brother-by-law's side starring in shock at his body. Jon made his way over to the pair, glaring at Aegon's corpse as he passed. He dropped to his knees on Darrin's other side. He couldn't really believe it, even as they sat there next to the corpse. Daeron had seemed a pillar of strength. And now he was gone. Jon sat there, a hand on his friend's chest. He felt a tear run down his cheek, and heard ghost let out a mournful howl.

He reached down, scooping his friend up in his arms. Silently, he knelt to grab Bright Flame. He slid it into the Scabbard at Daeron's side, and walked towards the gates. As one, Edmure and the rest of the army walked with him. He barely registered the gates sealing shut behind them as they went. Without thinking, he carried the fallen king to the castle, past the town and port. Gazing up at Bethany's decapitated corpse hanging off the dragon tower, he felt an intense feeling of hate overcome him. He pushed the castle doors open and stepped into the massive antechamber. Gazing around, he was struck by a sudden thought. He found himself wondering if Daeron had considered before he left that he might never see home again.

He found a massive bed chamber with a double bed. The room was well furnished. A magnificent tapestry above the bed head drew his attention. It depicted the Alleryon family standing in a Forrest clearing. Standing proud in the centre, on hand on his cane, was John. He carefully walked towards the bed, and reverently placed his lost friend upon it. Within moments Edmure walked into the room and let out a sigh at the sight of the body and Jon standing over it. He nodded respectfully to the other man. Edmure walked towards the bed, nodding back. He reached over to Bright Flame and unsheathed the magnificent blade. Gazing at it for just a moment, he placed it in Daer's hands. He placed it upon Daeron's still chest. The two men collapsed into chairs on either side of the bed. Edmure let out a sigh. Jon glanced up at him.

"We need to get word to Lucarion," the older man was saying now. "Someone needs to tell him what happened. And Day must be informed; we can't move without her orders". Jon warily ran a hand through his hair. He nodded slowly as he stared at the cold corpse. There was much that would need to be done. Lying there on the bed, Daeron looked so peaceful. The idea he was dead was difficult to accept, as though he would wake from a dreamless sleep. He would smile and tell them to get back to work.

He didn't know how long they sat there. It must have been a few hours. The sun was now high in the sky and Edmure was fast asleep. Jon himself had slept earlier in the morning. Neither had been prepared to leave, and so slept right there next to the body. Two horrible screams rent the air. Jon glanced up to see Dany and lady Ceryse standing there. Ceryse had covered her mouth with her hands and Dany was openly crying. She was the first into the room, throwing herself onto the bed beside him. She threw her arms around him and wept. The sound was the most painful he had heard in his life. As lady Alleryon made her way into the room in a more composed manner, he hastily stood up from his seat. She placed a hand on his shoulder in gratitude. She collapsed into the vacant chair and kissed her son's forehead.

"How can I mourn a husband and two children?" he heard her whisper. His heart bled for the woman who had seemed so strong when they first met. She had lost so much in one day. Both her oldest and youngest child were dead. He stood guard over the two mourning women, lost in his own silent grief. The three of them stayed there together, taking strength from each other's presence until nightfall. Lady Ceryse stood and slowly walked from the room. Watching her go, Jon made his own way out to find a room to get some sleep. Dany had fallen asleep on the bed a few hours before. Sequestered away in a comfortable guest bedroom, Jon stared out at the moon in the sky. Now to fulfil the prophecy they would need Lucarion to take the iron throne and become the king of life at Hard Home.

Lucarion

The celebrations of the renewal of the Stark-Frey alliance were in full swing. He was seated at a table with Jon Umber and other lords. Based on the noise outside the castle, the party for the men was in full swing. Frey servants carried meats such as venison and pork throughout the hall. Most of the guests were in their cups. Lucarion himself, unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling in his gut, had elected for water rather then wine. Stark and Frey had agreed to new terms: Frey would allow their men to travel north on the morrow and uphold their alliance. In return, both Stark girls would marry Freys. If Brandon and Rickon Stark were found alive, they would be wed to Frey girls. It seemed a major diplomatic issue had been averted.

Frey nearly caused an incident when he ordered Stark to leave his Dire wolf outside the castle. He claimed the beast to be dangerous, and ordered it be penned up outside the castles. Stark had near flown for the old man. Lucarion and Robb's uncle had been forced to hold him back. The feast now well underway, Lord Walder stood and the hall fell silent. He smiled clapped his hands and called for music. As the song "Alysanne" began to play, Frey gestured to his daughter Roslin and cast an expectant look at Stark. The king in the North smiled although It did not reach his eyes. Standing slowly he moved over to the Frey girl he had been expecting to wed.

When the song ended, replaced by "Flowers of Spring", Lucarion stood. The dishes served had been poor and the company loud and obnoxious. Moving away from the tables he stepped up to Stark and Roslin. The king in the North kissed her hand and moved towards one of her sisters. Lucarion smiled warmly at the young woman. She returned his smile nervously. He held a hand out to her. She glanced at her father; he'd nodded and she took Lucarion's hand. He gracefully led her around the room. Roslin Frey was a skilled dancer it seemed. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you enjoying the feast?" he asked her as he twirled her around. She smiled at his attempt to make conversation and nodded shyly. As the music began to swell she gazed into his eyes. There was something about her gaze. Something that seemed not quite right. She spoke up as they continued to sway to the music. "Tell Me my prince. How goes the campaign?" He beamed at her bid to continue the conversation. "It's not too bad, my lady. But it is annoying that Stark lost his seat". She nodded thoughtfully and the music once more came to a halt. He stepped back, kissing her hand as he did so. He turned and strode casually towards the doors. He wished to step out of the hall for some air. Perhaps take a walk through the camp, and see what the men were doing.

On the way out, he bumped into something hard. Glancing up, he recognised the pale features and pink dress of Roose Bolton. He hastily apologised to the northern Lord. The older man waved him off. In his quiet voice, he assured no harm had been done. As Lucarion dismissed himself, Bolton inclined his head respectfully. Lucarion politely said farewell and left the . He made his way through the castle and down to the Forrest. Finding a secluded tree, he leaned against the wood. Allowing the cool night air to wash over him, he smiled contentedly. As hqe made his way back to the feast later, a sudden thought struck him. Roose Bolton had been wearing mail. That was what he had slammed into earlier.

Dread once more gripping him, he broke into a run. For several moments the castle was eerily silent as he ran through the deserted halls. Then, as if rousing from a deep slumber, music came slowly once more to life. He stopped at the double doors, and listened. The music was a recognisable yet strange choice. "The King Without Courage". It had been written as an insult to one of his Targaryen relatives. He couldn't remember now which one. From the other side of the doors the music slowed. He heard Frey speaking.

"your Grace we have shared Bread and Salt. I have wined and dined you and your men. Words have been spoken, and oaths sworn on both sides. But I fear I have not shown your grace the hospitality you deserve, heh. Now, your Grace if you will permit, I wish to send my new queen a wedding gift". The next thing he heard was the twang of crossbows being fired and screaming on the other side of the door. There was a thud as though something had struck the doors. He heard jeering laughter and more screams. Finally, mercifully, the noise died down once more. He heard the old weasel speaking once again.

"Heh, the king in the North arises. Seems we killed a few of your man, Your Grace. Oh, but I'll make an apology, that will mend them all again, heh." The old man's voice sounded cold and angry. Robb Stark gave no reply, at least none that he could hear. He waited a few moments listening at the door. He heard footsteps coming towards the door. Without a single thought or moments hesitation, he turned and ran.

His heartbeat echoed in his throat, terror struck him like an anvil. He refused to stop running however. He knew that if he did he was a dead man. He arrived at the castle doors and threw them open. He was immediately surrounded by chaos. It felt as though he had been swept up in a storm. All around fires burnt through the camp site. He heard pained whimpering and howls, followed by cruel laughter. There were Frey and Bolton men butchering the Starks everywhere he watched. He could just make out Black Mouse and the other unsullied he had brought with him fighting the attackers. They had formed a shield wall and we're pushing their way south, away from the carnage. He needed to get to them. If he did not then he was going to die. He broke into a desperate run. He ducked a swing from a Frey and barrelled into a Bolton Archer, knocking him to the ground. The body of another Stark fell on top of him. He grabbed the northerner's sword and shoved it into the Bowman's throat. Blood gushed out, some of it striking his face. He tossed the body aside, leaped to his feat and kept moving. He saw a Stark soldier set upon by three Freys but did not stop to help. A Bolton charged towards him, driving him to the ground. He rose his borrowed sword to block the swipe of the men's axe. He swept his foot out and knocked the other man to the ground. The Bolton rolled out from under him as he swung. He felt the axe bite into his ribs and hissed out through the pain. His lack of experience with a sword began to show.

'I need a damned spear' he cursed. Biting his tongue, he leaped back from the axe and swung low. The Bolton casually dodged his attack. Once more the axe hit, digging into his right shoulder. He snarled as blood gushed down his arm. He lunged forward, intending the stab the northerner in the throat. A Frey charged him from the side, only to be stopped by an arrow. His strike missed, piercing the other man's hand. His grip on the axe slackened. A second arrow flew, impacting with the Bolton man's eye. He fell to the ground landing face first. A spear flew Lucarion's way. A shout went up behind him and he felt himself barrelled into the ground. Brynden Tully was lying on his chest, longbow in hand. The old knight stood and helped him to his feet.

Lucarion nodded in thanks to the older man. Tully nodded back. He held out a hand, gesturing for the sword Lucarion held. "You give me that," he began, handing over the bow and a Quiver full of arrows, "and take this instead. You'll thank me later". Lucarion needed no more convincing; he knew he was beyond terrible with a sword. Taking the longbow, he strung an arrow. The pair moved off once more. He could see the unsullied much better now. They were only about forty metres behind them. A Bolton horseman rode straight for the Blackfish from their right side. Before Lucarion could raise his weapon he was upon them. He swung, missing the older man, who swiped at the horse's legs. The beast leaped over the blade. As the soldier made a charge from the other direction, Lucarion was faster. His shot found the mark, and the dead men fell from the saddle. Tully grabbed the reins and assisted the injured man onto the beast's back.

They quickly caught up with the retreating unsullied and made their way south. Behind them the massacre of the Starks continued.

Daenerys

She awoke some time in the afternoon. She wasn't really sure _how_ many days she'd spent lying there now. It couldn't have been more then two full days however. She tightened her grip on Daeron and buried her head in his chest. He lay there without moving. He did not even blink as she ran a hand across his cheek softly. As Tears ran down her own cheeks, she instinctively placed a hand on her stomach. "I should have told you I didn't want you to keep fighting. Maybe then none of this would have happebened". She whispered. He blinked, arm wrapped around her.

" _We both knew this would happen eventually. I had to go back out there"_. He murmured softly in her ear. She shook her head and felt the tears splash upon her hands. She wiped her eyes. He smiled kindly as he stared up at the ceiling. She glanced up at the tapestry over their heads. Despite herself, she felt a tiny smile grace her lips. She kissed his hand softly and gazed lovingly into his eyes. "I'm glad you're with your family". She told him softly.

He blinked once more, and tilted his head to gaze into her eyes. The love she saw in his burned with more intensity then she'd ever felt. He spoke quietly once more. " _You're my family Dany. You and the baby_." He smiled lovingly at her and gripped her hand. She smiled as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. He lowered his head to her ear. " _There's something I need you to do sweetheart. Wake up_ ". She shot up with a start, and glanced next to her on the bed. There, right where they'd left it lay the body, cold and unmoving. He still griped the sword resting on his chest.

She slowly rolled over and sat up. Climbing off the bed, she bent down and kissed him softly. Before standing, she ran a hand through his hair. With a gentle sigh, she carefully retrieved the sword from his grip and closed his hands once more. She would give the sword to Lucarion, she decided. He would be appointed her new Lord of Starfyre hall. "I'll say goodbye later with the rest of the family" she whispered in his ear. With that she turned and left the room. Stepping out the door, she found Jon waiting for her in a chair placed against the wall.

He stood hastily as she walked towards him. She smiled at him as she approached. The look on his face was clear. Are you alright, it said. She nodded and wrapped her arms around him in a brief hug. Careful to mind the blade, she released him. She gazed at it as they walked, before her gaze fell to the empty scabbard he wore on his belt. She smiled at his thoughtfulness. It was then she noticed something unusual. Running along the length of the blade were silver Valerian Glyphs. **Nyke se Dawn. Isse se brōzi hen glaeson, gūrogon issa bē, cast issa qrīdrughagon** she read, raising an eyebrow. What was it, some sort of ancient ritual she mused. Jon noticed her perplexed look.

"Any idea what it says?" He asked her. She nodded, still staring at the blade as she did so. Finally, still trying to guess what it meant, she answered. "Nyke se Dawn. Isse se brōzi hen glaeson, gūrogon issa bē, cast issa qrīdrughagon. I am the Dawn. In the name of life, take me up, cast me away". She could feel his eyes on her as he stared at her. He gently took the sword and flipped it over. He passed it back and she noted the next set of glyphs as well; **Bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys**. The night is dark and full of terrors. She repeated the words to him in shock. As far as she knew, that was a prayer. None of this was making any sense to her. She handed him the sword to put away as they entered the great hall.

She gazed around the hall. At the high to one side sat Edmure and Melissa, whose head was buried in the Tully lord's shoulder. It was obvious she had been crying recently. She briefly wondered when the other woman had arrived. At the other end of the room, stood staring out the window was Ceryse. The older woman appeared tired and stiff as she stared out at the morning sky. Near the middle of the table sat Tyrion. Johanna sat on his knee, looking around and repeatedly calling for her brother and twin sister. It brought tears once more to Dany's eyes. She slowly moved to the table, falling into the centre seat next to Tyrion. She smiled tenderly at her foster-sister as Jon dutifully took up a protective position behind her chair.

Tyrion smiled sadly at her. As she started piling food onto her plate he reached over and gently placed a hand on hers in comfort. She smiled and gripped his loosely, smiling sadly. She could see the dry tear tracks down his cheeks and the lines under his eyes. He let out a long-suffering sigh, before clearing his throat. "he always was reckless, that boy. As I see things now, Dany, Aegon and Bethany are gone. The Martells will have Sailed home with their tails between their legs. We have no idea on the Tyrells. Perhaps both the vale and Reach will remain neutral. All that remains is to reclaim the north, subdue the Iron Born, and defeat Stannis. Ideally we should get that out of the way first". Dany nodded warily. She didn't really want to discuss strategy, but Tyrion was her hand. If he didn't offer advice, he wasn't doing his job property.

Ceryse turned and glared at them both. Without a word she marched over and slapped her brother across the face. Tyrion clutched his jaw and stared at his sister stunned. She glared at him and cursed. Dany was stunned; she'd never seen the woman who'd raised her talk like that to anyone. Ceryse glowered at them both. "Two of my children are dead," she spat at the pair, "and you want to talk about _Stannis_ and the _Martells_!?" she slapped Tyrion again and then Dany. She reached out and seized the other woman's hand before it struck.

Now it was her turn to glare. She stood and gazed imperiously at her foster-mother. "I'm willing to overlook that, because you're hurting. But I guarantee you, you will never do it _again_ ". For a moment, Ceryse seemed to shrink back. Then, taking her daughter from her brother, she turned and stalked from the hall, head held high. Glancing at one another, Edmure and Melissa hastily followed after her. Collapsing back into the chair, Dany ran a hand warily through her hair. She turned to Jon behind her. "would you please go and have a pyre built in the courtyard?" she asked. He nodded with a pained expression on his face.

Once they were alone, Tyrion threw her a strange look. She raised an eyebrow at his expression. "What is it?" He hesitated for several moments before responding. "You're going to go through with the cremation now?" he asked, surprised. She shook her head. "No, I'm just getting everything ready for it. We still have to wait for Lucarion. He nodded slowly. The look on his face was enough to tell her he was hesitating on bringing something else up. She waited for him to continue. After a moment, he spoke, "what _are_ you going to do about Lucarion? When Daer was alive the two of you made him heir".

She sighed, unsure if she should tell him. Perhaps it would not be a good idea to at that moment, she reasoned. She wasn't even sure herself if it was something worth worrying about. She'd need to speak with a Maester to confirm her suspicions. She placed a hand on her belly and stood up. She left the room to supervise the set up for the ceremony. Then once that was finished she would find the Maester.

Lucarion

They had been running for days. Eventually they came exhausted to Riverrun. The guards threw open the gates to give them entry. Lady Stark was waiting for them when they arrived. He cast an uncomfortable glance at Black Mouse, unsure what to do. The unsullied commander looked as uneasy as he felt. The Blackfish stepped forwards to speak quietly with his niece. Lucarion watched as the woman collapsed in the older man's arms. He winced at the beyond distraught look on her face.

Beside her a young boy who looked like a young Jon bolted from the courtyard. Lucarion was about to go and offer his condolences to lady Stark when the Maester ran towards him. The old man handed him a Raven scroll. Peeling it back he carefully read the words. He smiled upon seeing who it was from and that it had been sent from home. The smile fell from his face as he read the words. He glanced up at the Maester. "saddle me a horse". The old man nodded.

 _Lucarion_

 _First of all, how are you little brother? I haven't seen you since father's funeral. I hope your campaign is going well. I imagine Moat Cailin wasn't fun to assault, huh? Well, you can fill me in when you get here. We retook Starfyre Hall. Bethany's dead; the people of the town revolted against her. They strung her corpse up on the Dragon Tower. We also got Ceryse and Johanna back. But I think you had better get over here fast , kid. Something's happened, and it's bad over here._

He tore the letter to pieces. One of the servants rushed over with a spear and a proud looking horse. He smiled his thanks at the younger boy as he leaped into the saddle. As he rode off, he called over his shoulder, thanking Ser Brynden for saving his life. Driving the horse to its limit he rode through the Riverlands. The countryside had been utterly destroyed in the war. Aegon'S soldiers and the Lannister forces had burnt the lands. He could see bodies strewn over the countryside. Some were soldiers, yet too many were smallfolk.

The ride took three hours. As he spotted his beloved Starfyre in the distance, he grinned and drove the horse even harder. There were Wardens once more standing guard at the gatehouse. He rose a hand in greeting as he declared himself. As he rode through, sure enough, there was Bethany's body, still left hanging. He sneered at her headless corpse. The first thing out of place were the two pyres built side by side in the main square. Next was the Targaryen banner flying over the castle. All questions on his mind were forgotten however, when he spotted his mother and baby sister seated on the bottom step. He leaped off the horse, leaving it standing there.

Ceryse spotted him, and jumped to her feet. He ran to her, she and Johanna ran at the same time. They met in the middle, clutching one another and weeping tears of joy. As they pulled apart, his mother cupped his face, as if refusing to believe he was real. She ran a hand through his hair and let out a cry of joy. He pulled her firmly back into his embrace. She cried on his shoulder. He cast an eye around the yard. From the castle cane Tyrion, Jon Snow, and Daenerys. The Alleryon Bannermen were all making their way over to them from behind him. They stood in two diagonal lines, heads bowed, on either side of the pyres. He glanced at his mother. "Where's Rhaenyra. And where's Daeron?"

"Dead", she whispered. He stared at her in shock. There was no way it could be true. His older brother was too _stubborn_ to die. And Rhaenyra. Oh poor, sweet little Rhaenyra. He stared up at the castle. Jon Snow had stepped back into the darkness. Now he returned, and there was something in his arms. He couldn't tell what it was. It looked like a set of armour. He extracted himself from his mother as he walked over to see what he was carrying. As the other boy drew closer, it struck him how _stiff_ the armour looked. Then, like a mace to the gut it hit him. It was Daeron, it was all true. The brother he'd said he hated was lying there. And he was dead.

Snow carried the body towards him. As he went to pass, Lucarion stuck out a hand to stop him. The other boy looked at him. Lucarion held his hand out for the body. Snow shook his head and made to pass once more. Lucarion moved to stand in the way. "it's play," Stark's son stated, speaking softly. "I've got him, I can do it". At that, Lucarion felt his blood boil. He shook his head, and struck the other boy across the leg with his spear. As the bastard staggered, he punched him in the head. He fell and the body he'd been carrying struck the stone floor with a resounding thud. He glared down at the bastard, even as he vaguely heard Dany screaming at them to stop.

Snow was nursing an injured Jaw bone. Lucarion glared at him as he knelt to pick up the fallen corpse. He sneered at the other boy. "Worry about your own brother", he hissed, walking towards the Pyre. He heard Jon groan, and then speak. "Robb", he asked, "why? What happened? Answer me!" Lucarion did not look back as he dropped the body into the bed of wood. "Dead. Frey murdered him". He briefly wondered what the look on his face looked like, but still refused to turn around. Daenerys ran down to help the bastard to his feet. Tobias Ainsworth gently placed his sister on the identical pyre. He walked over and placed a hand on Lucarion's shoulder. Together they stared silently at the lifeless body of his once energetic body. Placing a hand on his lost friend's shoulder the new Lord Ainsworth turned on his foot and moved to fall in line with his fellows.

He stood beside the pyre as he waited for the ceremony to commence. The torch in his hand shook as his entire body trembled. Somehow, he knew, the shakes were not a result of the - admittedly cold – weather. He closed his eyes as he waited. Their Bannermen had closed ranks, standing in two rows, with Edmure, Melissa, Tyrion, Johanna and Jon standing in front of them. Daenerys stood between the two pyres. They were waiting for his mother, who they had decided would light his sister's fire. The doors to the palace opened, and she appeared.

She was wearing a black dress with Lannister crimson trimmings. Upon her breast, roaring with pride, stood the Lannister lion. She appeared dignified as she walked, her head held high. Yet he could see the pain in her eyes. He knew having to do this was destroying her inside. She moved through the small crowd of nobles, still looking as proud as she could bear. He smiled at her, in gratitude for her courage. He would need her to be brave enough for the both of them, before the night was through. She stopped next who her brother, and glanced down at him apologetically. He shrugged as he handed over the torch. Nodding over at him she took the last few steps towards her own pyre.

She gazed down at Rhaenyra and placed a hand gently on her cheek. Removing the hand, she placed a final kiss upon his baby sister's cold lips. Then, unshed tears glistening in her eyes, she lowered the torch. She stepped back and Dany moved around to her. She gently retrieved the flaming torch from her. Moving back to her original position, she lit the second half. She knelt, opening the box from the Dragon Tower. As he watched, uncaring of Daeron's blood from her hands staining them, she tossed three petrified dragon eggs onto the fire. She turned to gaze down at Daeron. She nodded affirmatively to Lucarion. He held the torch ready to throw.

As he did so a thickly accented voice shouted at him from across the courtyard. "stop" the mysterious new comer called imploringly, "you must _not_ light that pyre". He tilted his head to see what the commotion was all about. Others were looking as well now. Across the courtyard, running through the town market came a woman in crimson robes. Her skin was white with a beautiful pearl white sheen. Behind her came Randyll Tarly and two Tyrells. The woman came to a stop next to him. She seized his torch, tossed it aside then grabbed his brother's body from the pyre.

Tywin

He expected the cold. With winter so close to bear, even south of the wall the weather was turning. It made sense that the frozen north, the _real_ north, would also be cold. The snow fell in a slow sheet, blanketing his black furs and sable cloak. Around him, the smallfolk who had sought refuge shivered. The rangers seemed to hardly notice and, riding two abreast behind him. They trudged on carefully, keeping their eyes open for tracks in the fresh snow. The air soon turned bitingly cold as they rode closer to their destination. The snow seemed to fall faster and heavier.

He had expected the blood upon the ground and trees. They knew the dead were attacking the free folk. Knew that the war was coming. The rangers had seen it all. Those who had survived Mormont's ranging still told the tales. How the weights had fell upon them. How 'Sam the Slater' had killed an other. He wasn't sure he _believed_ all the stories as yet. Despite his doubts, the rangers with him were still on edge. They knew. They knew the real dangers of the woods.

And of course, as they reached the camp site, he had expected the mistrust. The Wildlings hated the Watch with a passion. Most still called them all 'crows'. The giants didn't trust them because they were humans. Tormund didn't trust _him_ because he was a new variable. An unknown. Convincing these people to trust him would not be easy. But they needed them If they were going to survive. They needed their warriors..

Tormund trudged towards him through the snow. The Giantsbane gazed intently up at him. When he spoke, it was with a strange accent, and half the words were curses. He begrudgingly welcomed them. Asked them forcefully why they were there. The farmers were uncomfortable. Even the seasoned rangers seemed uneasy. He wasn't sure if it was because of what they were there to do, or something else.

"I want to let you south of the wall. In return, fight with me". The wildling regarded him with suspicion.

What he did not expect were the inhumane cries. He hadn't expected the sudden attack, or the wildlings to die in such numbers.

He hadn't expected the dead to be so countless or relentless.

And as the walkers appeared on the mountain looking down on them, he spotted a creature of nightmare. Sat upon a dead horse, skin as blue as a frozen lake was an other more terrifying then the others. Perhaps it was the unholy way his eyes soon. Maybe it was the crown-like spikes upon its head. Or perhaps it was what happened next.

For as they sat upon their respective mounts and glowered at one another, something else he hadn't expected happened.

The thing smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

Arya

Riverrun was cold and grey. She had silently wandered the battlements since learning Robb was dead. With her father dead, and now Robb gone, and Bran and Rickon killed, either King Daeron and Queen Daenerys would have to make Jon legitimate, or Sansa would be queen.

Mother had been in her chambers since the news arrived. She knew she should she should be comforting her. but she couldn't; she didn't even know how she felt herself. The soldiers had been offering condolences all morning. She wasn't really interested in what they had to say.

Father had once told them something, something that seemed stupid now. "In the winter, when the cold winds blow," he had told them, "the lone wolf dies but the pack survives". She felt like laughing. Half the pack were dead.

And she was the lone wolf. She had survived, and now winter was almost here. Needle was heavy at her side, but – for once – she didn't feel like training. Ever since she had been rescued and brought to Riverrun, somehow life had gotten worse. She wanted Walder Frey dead.

She wanted his family dead. She wanted revenge for Robb. Revenge for her family. And she was going to have it. Perhaps she could send a raven to Daer and Dany. If she asked, and gave a reason for it, Dany would give her any of the men she needed to take the twins. She let out a sigh. That was a dream; the dream of an angry, foolish girl. If she wanted to kill the Frey's she would have to do it herself.

Daeron and Daenerys would not be able to spare any men. They would need their men to attack Stannis. She stared down at the horses in the yard. No one was guarding them; the men were either marching the walls, breaking their fast, or gathering supplies for the upcoming King's Landing campaign.

Her uncle was somewhere inside. Doubtless, he was off consoling her mother. She ran down the walls, bumping into one of the guardsmen. He placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her. she yelled an apology over her shoulder as she ran past him. She slid under a cart half way through the yard.

She watched as a group of four men with heavy military boots strode past her through the yard. She could hear them speaking now. Her uncle was giving out orders to the other men.

"Get ready to ride out," the blackfish was saying, "lord Edmure requires as many men as we can give him. King Daeron might be dead, but Daenerys wants King's Landing taken as soon as possible. We have to be sailing north before winter. The queen says the king made some vow before he died, and she wants it kept". As they walked past, Arya lay there stunned.

Daeron was dead? But he'd fought so well at Winterfell. It would have taken an amazing fighter to kill him. And Jon! He'd been with Daeron for most of the war. If Daeron was dead, there was a good chance her brother was dead too. She felt hot tears prick her cheeks.

She brushed the tears away angrily. No, she thought, stubborn anger taking root in her stomach. Jon was the best swordsman in Westeros. No one could kill him. No one, not even Daeron. Just because he was dead, that meant nothing. Jon was alive. She slid out from under the cart.

Her uncle and the men he had been talking to were nowhere to be seen. She made a break towards the horse she had seen earlier. She pulled herself up onto the beast, which was already saddled. She struck the reins, and the horse broke into a gallop. The men were opening the gates as they shot through the gap. She heard men calling her name and running after her, and paid them no heed. She turned the horse towards the north – and her destiny.

Tywin

They stood in three lines. The huge wildling, Tormund Giantsbane stood by his side. Archers fired volley after volley into the hordes of dead. Fire rained down on the dead men, burning them. Once again, the burning arrows flew. Each time, a few hundred of the corpses fell, moving no more. It would not be enough. They would be overrun. And still the walkers watched from the hill. In front of them, Wildlings moved forwards, pointing massive pike-like spears towards the dead men, driving them into the ground.

He nodded. Perhaps they could not beat these monsters, but they could slow them down long enough for most of the men to escape. He heard the twang of bow strings, smelt the heavy smog in the air, and saw the flames burning the weights, and heard their high-pitched dying screams. He drew Lion's Tooth, the sword he'd had crafted from his predecessor's Longclaw. The metal seemed to sing in the cold morning air.

Was it just his imagination, or had the walkers turned their heads towards the blade when he drew the sword? There was nothing to worry about there, now. He moved forward, standing with the wildling spearmen. His rangers fell in around him as a bodyguard. The giantsbane pushed his way forward.

Still the arrows fell, and still their enemies advanced. It was like an endless horde of ants, marching inexorably forwards. And then, inevitably, they slammed against the front line. He'd never been as skilled a swordsman as his oldest son or grandson, but he was good enough. The valyrian blade slammed into the skull of one of the weights.

It was as though their were no resistance as his blade caved in the creature's skull. It crumbled before him, dead with a single blow. Again and again Lion's Tooth found its mark, and again and again an enemy fell before him. But even so, it would not be enough. The blade crashed down on the beasts, but even as he hacked them down, wildling and night's watchman alike fell around him. and still, the walkers watched. Arrows rained down on the enemy, and the fires drew closer to his own line.

He cut the head of a weight from its shoulders. They were starting to drive the wildling warriors back. Tormund fought his way to his side. The huge man stared at him "you! Crow with the magic sword! You promise we'll be safe south of your wall? You won't kill us all once we get there?" He nodded.

"so long as you fight with me, if we win, you will have all I promised you". Tormund nodded. He cast his eye across the battlefield. He turned back to Tywin. The dead continued to push against the men in front of them. Tormund nodded. Clearly, he had come to a decision.

"We need to retreat. Now. Or we're both dead". Tywin nodded. He called across the lines for a withdrawal. The Wildlings began running south, Tormund turned to the men in front of them.

"hold the Line! We will sing of your sacrifice here! And if you come back as corpses, you have my word I'll bring you peace myself!" the men pushed back against the dead, and for once allies rather then enemies, the leader of the free folk and the king crow quit the field together.

Suddenly, he heard a horrible, high-pitched voice behind them. He spun around. Behind them, upon its skeletal steed, was a walker. The thing rode towards them, brandishing a blue, ice-like spear. It hurled the weapon in their direction. Tormund ducked, the spear passing harmlessly over his head. The walker 'drew' a pair of ice swords, swinging one in his direction and one at Tormund. He raised Lion's Tooth to block the blade. As steel met the arcane blade of the walker, something incredible happened.

The blade seemed to glow a deep crimson, the colour of his house. The walker tried to pull its own blade back. The crystal-like substance shook briefly, before shattering into at least a thousand different pieces. the walker's horse reered upwards, and the rider was thrown from the saddle. He and Tormund stared at one another briefly before charging the thing. Tywin was not as fast as he once was in youth, and Tormund was exhausted from the fighting and retreat. The other rolled clear of their blows, lunging at Tormund.

The wildling jumped back from the other, and the thing's strike found only thin air. Tywin slung his blade downwards, determined to cleave open the thing's head. It rolled clear of the blow, before lunging at him. he side stepped, as Tormund slung a retaliatory blow at it. Both strokes missed their mark. He slung at its back, dealing a glancing blow against its shoulder.

The walker let out a high pitched howl as its arm shattered, much like the sword before it. It howled at him, like the cold winds of winter, and leaped towards him, sword first. He raised his own blade, though only a second too late. The cold ice slammed into his body. He felt a searing pain shoot up his left arm, and staggered back. Tormund drove his axe into the fiend from behind. Tywin gripped his arm.

It was turning blue, and hot to touch. He felt a horrid sensation overcome him. he gripped his arm, and grit his teeth. Stepping forward once more, he jammed Lion's Tooth into the thing's back. The chest of the thing caught fire, burning from the point of entry outwards. The walker shattered into a thousand pieces.

As the destroyed walker blew away on the cold wind, Tywin fell to his knees. He felt the fever in his arm beginning to spread. He heard Tormund's heavy footsteps approaching him, and felt his grip on Lion's Tooth loosening as he slowly lost consciousness. Tormund kneeled before him, rolling up his sleeve.

Tywin glanced at the arm. The skin was turning blue, from his elbow down to nearly his wrist. He glanced up at the wildling. "Cut it off", he snarled at the Wildling. Tormund nodded, standing up slowly. He lowered his axe blade towards the affected arm, raising it above his head. Tywin grit his teeth, waiting for the blow. He let out a howl and lost consciousness all at once as his arm came away.

Daeron

There were shadows everywhere. He was surrounded by darkness, with nowhere to go. Suddenly, he felt a sharp, burning pain throughout his entire body. Glancing down, he gripped his side. There was a bloody wound on his stomach. Bright flame was held limply in his hand. He limped off into the shadows. All around him he could hear soft voices flowing on a non-existent wind. He walked for what felt like ages, before he stepped into an endless godswood forest. He staggered through the trees, towards the largest of the weirwoods. He could hear a voice in his head, telling him to go towards the tree.

He reached for the sprawling branches of the weirwood, staggering as he did so. He felt a sudden burning pain in his side, and fell towards the ground. He felt his back slam into the tree, and his heavy eyes slowly drifting closed. A voice called through the sheet of pain, trying to break through to him.

He could hear his name. with a groan, he murmured a soft reply, telling whoever it was trying to get his attention to leave him be. He needed sleep. Yes, sleep. And then he could deal with the rest of it all later. He felt his eyes drift closed, and knew no more. The voices stopped calling, and everything fell silent.

He found himself standing near the ocean. The ground was covered in snow and ice. Fresh ice was falling towards the ground. He cast an eye around the entire area. Ships sit anchored in the water off the coast. There are thousands of men standing on the icy ground behind him. each man is armed with a spear, tipped with dragonglass. Many of them also carry bows. Beside him on the left stand Jon and Lucarion. On the right side are Jaime, Dany, Tyrion, and grandfather. Jon and Jaime each hold Valyrian steel blades.

Above his head, there is a cacophony of sounds. He tilts his head towards the sky, searching for the source of the din. Thousands upon thousands of ravens fly across the sky, so many they blot out the sun. the ravens break into two groups, and in the middle soar three majestic dragons. One of the beasts lets out a roar as it swoops down over his head.

The dragons unleash a wall of fire. He raises a hand to shield his face from the smoke and heat. Through the fire thousands upon thousands of dead men come running, many of them collapsing as they do. The dead men stagger over one another in an effort to reach the men standing on the shore. Obsidian tipped arrows race through the skies.

The first corpses slam against him. Bright flame flashes through the air, severing limbs and cutting down the enemies. His companions slash their own blades through the bones and muscle of the dead, and countless numbers of the walking corpses fall. Dragon fire scorches the earth, and more and more dead fall.

The first to fall is Tyrion, dragged down by dozens of the wights, and ripped to pieces with a single scream. The next amongst the dead is Lucarion. His spear is shattered as he drives it into a wight, and he is torn to pieces where he stands, his blood staining Daeron's face. The dead part like a wave.

Through the parting seas of wights walk hundreds of tall figures. Blue figures wearing a strange, otherworldly Armor and holding beautiful blue weapons walk towards them. They are led by a tall figure with crown like spikes protruding from the top of his head. Jon and Jaime on either side of him raise their swords. The walkers rush them as the pair step between him and the oncoming onslaught. The crowned one stands back, watching.

The Valyrian steel collides with the weapons of the others, shattering the ethereal blades on impact. The walkers are felled one by one by Jon and Jaime. He leaps into the fray behind them, slamming Bright Flame down upon the head of one of the beasts. It shatters, covering his Armor in icy blue particles.

A quick glance down reveals that the metal has been rent by the walker's remains. He swings bright flame to block an assault, and a second sword impacts his side, severing his off hand. The pain is like nothing he has ever felt before. It is though his entire body is on fire. Beside him, Jon is pierced by as many as half a dozen blades.

He staggers over to his friend, catching him as he falls. Jon whispers something to him, but the words are carried off by the wind. He catches the words night king, and prophecy. He's not sure what it's supposed to mean. Somehow part of him understands that the information is vital, he stands, and, enraged cuts down a dozen more of the walkers. He wields Bright Flame in one hand and Ice in the other. He and Jaime fight back to back. Suddenly, as he cuts an opening towards the crowned walker in the centre, a scream breaks through the morning wind.

A high pitched roar of pain splits through the sky. Above the battlefield, one of the dragons tumbles through the sky. On its back, a spear of ice imbedded in her heart, is Dany. The dragon slams into the earth off to the side, crushing dozens of wights. He lets out an enraged scream, tearing through walker and wight alike to get to the dead behemoth.

Dany is lying on the dragon, slumped forwards against its neck. The beast is dead. She is barely breathing as he pulls her off its corpse. He drags her away from the battle towards a second dragon a few dozen metres away. He pulls her up with him onto the beast.

It flies them through the sky, towards a small, frozen glade about two hundred metres from the battlefield. The beast lands, and he pulls her off it once more. He slumps against a tree, laying her back against his chest, and closes his eyes. Tears in her own eyes, she whispers her goodbyes, tells him she loves him, and falls still in his arms. a thunderous roar once more splits the sky as a dragon with blue eyes lands in the clearing, the crowned walker upon its back.

He stands slowly, readying the Valyrian blades in his hand as the thing smiles at him coldly, sword in each hand. They come together in a flash, blades dancing off one another. Again and again, they clash, neither able to find an opening. It is just like his fights with Jon, neither able to break through. When the other's weapons shatter, two more appear from thin air, and they begin again. Ice is knocked from his hand by the force of one of the blows.

He holds Bright Flame in both hands. The steel slams against the walker's blades, blocking them both at once. He is pushed back towards the trees. He kicks the walker backwards, though it is not enough. The force of the impact barely unsteadies the fiend, which lunges at him, in desperation, he stabs Bright Flame forwards. The sword meets flesh, and yet even expecting it, there is no pain from the walker's blades. Glancing down, he understands.

Bright Flame is bound to Dany's heart. The walker has driven its own cold metal into her stomach. Somehow, barely alive, she has positioned herself between them. He tears the Valyrian steel from her heart, horrified.

The glyphs on the blade glow red, Dany's blood shining on them. The blade glows orange, erupting in a burning pillar of flame. The heat scorches his armour, melting the rent mail. The walker's weapons seem to melt away as the blade touches them. It steps back hastily as he advances, sword raised for the kill.

The walker's black armour melts away as he approaches. He drives the Valyrian steel through the creature's chest, binding the metal to its cold heart. It falls to the ground, collapsing on its knees. He tears the blade free from its chest, beheading it with a single stroke. As he pulls Bright flame back, the sword glows a pale blue.

From the cliff above, a voice whispers his name, and the scene before him melts before his eyes.

He is standing atop the wall. Large parts of it have collapsed, and most of it is on fire. The castles behind it have fallen to dust. All around, the land is strewn with corpses, and wights are all that can be seen for miles. Some, he recognises; his mother, Aegon, Lucarion, Jon, Tyrion, Robb, his father, Daenerys, Bethany. There are countless others he does not recognise, however. The scene shifts once more, and he is standing in the red keep. The roof has caved in, and the crowned monstrosity he had killed is sitting on the iron throne. In one hand it holds its blue sword. At its feet, blade shattered into five pieces, is Bright flame.

"What is this?" he screams, falling to his knees. A soft voice behind him answers.

"The future. If man should fail". He knows he should recognise the voice, but he can't place it. A hand falls on each of his shoulders. He tilts his head up. Standing above him are two figures. One is an old man with milk white skin, long white hair, and red eyes. The other is Brandon Stark, although he is standing once more.

Bloodraven nods towards the walker seated on the iron throne. "That is the future that faces Westeros unless we can stop it. When the dead are marching through King's Landing it won't make any difference whose corpse it is sitting the Iron Throne". Even as blood raven speaks, the figure on the throne shifts.

First, it is Stannis, with cold blue eyes, then Joffrey, followed by Aegon. Next comes Robb, then Jon, then Dany, and finally his own blue eyed corpse. Brynden Rivers pulls him to his feet. "your war doesn't matter. Not really. It never did". Bran nods, staring into his eyes.

"The only war that ever mattered was the one to the north", the boy began, walking towards the Iron Throne. He places his hand on the corpse, and its eyes fade to a dull black. He turns back around, and when he moves his lips, his voice flows from the corpse on the throne. "The Night's Watch alone can no longer protect us. We have to defend ourselves now".

Bloodraven placed a hand on his shoulder once more. The scene shifted once again before his eyes. They were standing on the cliff above the battlefield he'd started at. He could see the entire battlefield and outwards for miles. In the distance, marching slowly north, were the army of the dead. Bloodraven nodded towards the battlefield.

"Hardhome. Prophecies of Asshai and the red priests of R'hollor tell of a great battle in this place".

"The battle for the dawn," Bran murmured softly from the other side. He glanced at the boy. So there was a way to beat the walkers. Cold winds blew across Hardhome. Bloodraven stared at the army of the dead, spread out before them.

"The prophecy does not say how the battle will end. We are gambling the fate of the seven kingdoms on this one battle. On you". Daeron twisted his neck to stare at the old man. Bloodraven nodded without looking at him.

"There has to be another way" he snarled. "I'm dead, remember?" Bloodraven nodded. "Indeed you are. But don't you find it strange we can commune with you here?" Daeron blinked, staring at him. Once again, it was Bran who continued speaking.

"We called out to your soul from the void. Collected you before you faded on. You asked if there was another way. There might be. We're not certain though".

"The prince who was promised", Brynden added, 'we have searched for them, but have not found them yet. According to another prophecy, they can defeat the walkers. Rather then waste more time like that, we're focused on Hardhome now".

"and what am I supposed to do?" he demanded.

"you must lead the fight against the Night King. No matter what it takes – even your life – the night king cannot leave this field". He shook his head.

"No. Even if I wanted to go back – and I don't – I will fight the walkers, and I will do the best I can to save Westeros, but I will not risk my life, or my men, if there's no hope. Besides I'm doing this for my family, not because you say I have to".

Bloodraven shrugged his shoulders. "You're reasons don't matter".

Ceryse

They watched in silence as Rhaenyra's Pyre burned. Flames licked at the wood and the flames rose into the air. Daenerys turned to Lucaion, giving the signal to light her oldest son's pyre. Slowly, she moved back towards her brother, standing in line with him. He took her hand in his own, giving it a gentle squeeze. A small, despondent smile graced her lips. At least they still had each other. She thought of her other brother, sitting rotting in a cell in Casterly Rock.

Daeron had ordered him placed there until the end of the campaign. He'd intended to speak with the older knight. Perhaps he had been meaning to send him to the wall. Or perhaps he had meant to allow him to remain Kingsguard. Either way it was a moot point now. They watched as her son prepared to toss the torch.

A sudden, shrill voice cut through the silence. Her eyes shot up at the sound. Beside her, Tyrion dropped her hand, moving forward to investigate the commotion. There was a woman in crimson robes with dark black hair running towards them across them. Behind the stranger, covered head to toe in armour was Randyll Tarly, leading a pair of Tyrells. "Stop", the strange woman shout imploringly at her son "you must _not_ light that pyre!" Ceryse stepped forward, towards her son. He hesitated, looking between Daenerys and the newcomers.

She snatched the torch from his hand, his grip weak. Tyrion, standing once more beside her, reached for the torch. Silently, she handed it to him. He slammed it into the ground and snuffed it out. Taking a step towards the newcomers, he snapped a warning at the strange woman. The red robed stranger raised her hands in front of her in a calming gesture.

Ceryse glared darkly at the woman, "Who are you? What business do you have here?" the woman bowed politely as she moved towards her son's pyre, and pulled him off the wood. There were gasps all around. Jon and Tobias rushed forwards, swords drawn. Lucarion tore Bright Flame from the scabbard at Daenerys' side, pointing it at the stranger's throat.

Heedless of the danger facing her, the stranger continued to stare into Ceryse's eyes. It was starting to feel unnerving, finally she began to speak. Her words carried a thick Tyroshi accent. "I am Nesirah, high priestess of R'hllor, Lion Lady. I come here to Westeros to heal the wounds of your king". Tyrion glared at the woman.

"I've heard more than enough out of you," he began, glaring coldly at the woman. "We have no need of your sorcerous ways. Jon, Tobias, take the witch into custody. We will proceed with the ceremony". Tobias stepped forward, even as Lucarion moved back slightly, and pressed his sword into the small of her back. He gestured for Jon, who seemed to hesitate.

Ainsworth signalled for Jon to move, calling for him to help him move her. Tarly and the Tyrells moved forwards, but stayed silent. Beside her Dany took a few urgent steps forward. "Stop!", shouted the girl, raising a hand. She glared at Nesirah. "What do you mean heal him?" She demanded.

"Tell me true, or I'll bind you to the pyre with him". The red priestess nodded, bowing once more. She took a hesitant step forwards, "Silver queen," she began, "the lord is not yet done with him. He will give me the power to resurrect him from death". Beside her, Tyrion scofed.

"Blood Magic – Trickery!" he snarled at her

The woman shook her head, "It is not blood magic, or a trick. R'hllor gives the power, and works the magic through me. It is called the last kiss, or the kiss of life". Daenerys nodded.

"Show me". Ceryse took a step forward.

"Show us", she added. Nesirah bowed. Before Tyrion could obeject, Jon grabbed Daeron's body from the priestess, and they rushed back into the castle.

They made their way into her and John's old bedchambers. Jon dropped Daeron on the bed. Silently, Lucarion and Tyrion entered the room behind them. Her brother approached her slowly as Daenerys closed the door. Her brother glanced up at her "are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked, looking at her.

She shook her head, "I'm not sure about any of this", she told her brother. "But I know we have to try". Warily, Tyrion nodded as he took a step back. He seemed to hesitate before dragging a seat over to the bed and plopping down beside her. Nesirah made her way over to the bed as Dany sat on the other side, taking her son's hand in both of hers. Snow's dire wolf, Ghost, curled up in the corner, watching silently.

The fire priestess took a knife from her robes. Without a word, she began to cut into his doublet. She pushed the material back, revealing his chest. Dried blood still caked his abdomen and lower chest. The priestess glanced up.

"Jon Snow", she began, voice low and husky, "you will assist me. Please retrieve a wash bowl and cloth with warm water". Without questioning how she knew his name, the boy turned and left the room, hurrying off to do as instructed. They stayed there, watching in silence as Nesirah pressed her hands down Daeron's chest, waiting.

Jon returned quickly, placing the necessary items on the desktop next to the bed. Nesirah nodded her thanks, taking the cloth from the water and rinsing it out. Slowly, the red priestess began running the cloth over his chest, washing off the dried blood. When this was done, she dropped the towel back into the water.

Despite herself, Ceryse took a deep, shuddering breath as the cloth met the water. It was difficult to watch her son's blood colour the water a rusted red. Once the blood was washed away, Nesirah took a deep breath.

"Wait," Daenerys began, Startling them all, "will it change him?" Ceryse blinked, hesitating as she waited for the answer. Nesirah took a deep breath. "I do not know, Silver Queen. I have never attempted this before". Ceryse frowned. Good of the woman to tell them now, at least, she thought bitterly.

"Do it", she told the priestess. The woman nodded slowly. She bowed her head, and began to speak.

" **Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon** ", the priestess intoned, voice lowering even further. The room seemed to grow even darker then before. Despite herself, Ceryse shuddered. The priestess continued her prayer, " **Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon** ". The room grew yet darker, and cold air ran through the room.

" **Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson** ". The prayers finished, the red woman took a deep breath. She stood back from the bed, letting out a slight sigh. Danny lowered her head. Ceryse felt tears slowly prick at her eyes.

"Come on, son" she whispered softly. She had already lost her husband and two children. She wanted this one back. Suddenly, without warning, the fire came to life, cracking and popping as though dancing. They jumped slightly, each stepping away from the roaring flames.

"There is no need for us to fear the flames", Nesirah stated simply. She stared at Daeron's unmoving corpse. "The lord is here among us tonight". She walked over to the fire, and reached in a hand. Ceryse let out a gasp. Slowly, she held her hand up to her mouth, swallowing the flame.

She made her way back over to the bed, and knelt before Daeron. She lowered her lips to his, and breathed outwards.

"Lord," she whispered "cast your light upon this man. Reawaken his flame". She pulled back slowly.

"I have done all I can. Now we must wait. The rest is up to him".

Daeron

He stood between Bran and Bloodraven, watching in the far distance as the army of the dead marched ever on. He heard the cries of dying men, and watched as thousands of wildlings ran for the safety of the wall. Tilting his head downward, he turned and watched them run.

"What's going on there?" he asked the other two. It was Bloodraven who answered. "You are seeing present events. The lord commander of the night's watch marched north to rescue the wildlings from the army of the dead. They will take refuge on the wall, whilst the Night King's army roams through the north hunting for stragglers and the children of the forest. You will have until the middle of next year to end the war of the five kings and march north. If you have not, the army of the dead will pass this place, and the wall itself will fall".

Daeron nodded. Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice broke through the clouds, speaking a foreign language. It sounded like High Valyrian. The speaker was a woman, though for the life of him, he could not work out what it was she was saying. Bran and Rivers tilted their heads up towards the sky to listen. The young Stark looked at him.

"It sounds like your cue to wake up," the boy told him. "I'll see you in a year and a half." Daeron let out a sigh. After all that he'd done, and all that had happened –

He cast a glance between the pair of them, "Do I have to go back?", he asked staring into Bloodraven's eyes. The Targaryen bastard met his gaze, watching him silently for several moments. Finally, he spoke.

"No," he began, watching him without blinking. "You are technically dead. Blackfyre did kill you. There is nothing to stop you from going on and not waking up. You will be able to have your rest, until the Night King rouses you from your slumber. And perhaps someone else will defeat the Night King's army. Perhaps life will endure. Perhaps Westeros will see the dawn again". He continued staring at him, falling silent.

He watched Daeron carefully. The young king twisted his head up to the sky. "And if I go back?" he asked, turning his gaze back down to the other Valyrian. Bloodraven shrugged, smiling slightly. The expression made Daeron shudder, despite himself.

"Even I cannot say for sure. It will be difficult, and there will be many times you wished you had let yourself drift away. I cannot tell you the dead will win the war. But I can tell you this; unless the prince who was promised can defeat them, Westeros will never be the same. If you go back, your road will be a difficult one. You will have to make sacrifices. But if you do, there is a chance you and all of Westeros might know peace". Daeron lowered his head, nodding slightly.

"I'll go back. Although I don't think it's going to be easy, is it?" For the first time since they had met, Bloodraven laughed. The old man threw his head back, laughing long and loud. When he finished, he let out a slight chuckle, placing a hand on Daeron's shoulder.

"No, young king," he replied, smiling warmly for the first time, "but the right choice never is". Daeron nodded. Before him, the north faded away, the trees, snow, rocks, and ice all slowly disappeared. Behind him, the wall faded from view slowly. The last thing he saw were Bran and Brynden Rivers. The two raised their hands in farewell. With a smile, he waved slowly back.

The first sensation was a burning pain in his side. With a hiss, he grabbed his side, letting out a groan as he did so. Suddenly aware once more, he shot up, taking several deep lungfulls of air. Casting a quick, terrified glance around his surroundings, he was surprised to see he wasn't lying on a battlefield. Instead, he was lying in an empty bedroom. The room was dark, and cold, the only light coming from the fire in the corner. Slowly, careful not to agitate the wound in his side, he slung his legs over the bed, and ran a hand through his hair.

Jon opened the door, barging into the room. The other boy ran forward, dropping a cloak over his naked chest. Slowly, Daeron pushed himself up of the bed. Jon moved forward to help him up, but he waved him off. The Stark bastard cast a quick appraising glance up and down his tired form.

"You look like you need a decent sleep," his friend told him. With a frown, Daeron shook his head. "I've slept enough to waste a lifetime," he told Jon, sitting in a chair placed near the bed. He took another deep breath and stared at his hands.

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," he added with a laugh as Jon sat down on the bed beside him. His friend glared at him.

"Don't Joke about that," he replied with a glare. Daeron nodded, smiling apologetically.

"How are you feeling?"

"Sore"

Jon nodded, "I'll fetch Nesirah". Daeron barely had time to wonder who Jon was talking about, before his eyes rolled back into his skull, and he slipped into blissful unconsciousness.


End file.
